THE GARDEN OF RIPPLING MARBLE 11
were the trees, the branches came so low, that it
looked like a solid wall of tangled greenery without
an opening. Warily I piloted my unfiery steeds,
waving plumes and all, between two trees and, to
my delight, found that the road went on.
But now it ceased to be a road, it was rather a
park avenue. Twenty paces back, a minute ago, I
had been jolting along a stony track, stifled with
dust, half-blinded by the light that battened on the
sun-scorched undergrowth. No sooner had I passed
the sentinel trees than I was in another world,
a dim, green-shadowed oasis, a tranquil garden
where the dew-drenched air was cool and sweet
with drifts of orange-blossom and wild jasmine, with
a pomander of exotic flowers.
A white wall came into view at the far end of a
track of pinkish sand, mottled with golden flakes of
sunlight; large grey monkeys were gambolling
across it. I got down from the tonga and strolled
towards the monkeys ; they had kept up with us
and now were scampering along the coping. Dim
had just bought his breakfast from the tonga-man,
large flat slabs of bread like pancakes, and handed
some to me.
Guttural cries, a patter of swift feet along the
wall—the monkeys had observed Dim's gesture.
Some morsels tossed in their direction bunched them
in a hungry scrum. A brisk melee, a general stam-
pede, then all came capering back in monkey-file.
After some more largess we had made friends. Now,
instead of throwing it, I held out a large slice of
chupattie. Could I be trusted? A feverish pala-
ver, somersaults. In five bounds one of them was
up a tree, and down again in two ; mustering up
his courage, I suppose. The others followed suit,
then sat down in the offing and began to scratch